


Silver Lace (i'm not sorry)

by coricomile



Category: Glee
Genre: Crossdressing, M/M
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2012-09-27
Updated: 2012-09-27
Packaged: 2017-11-15 03:32:10
Rating: Explicit
Warnings: Underage
Chapters: 1
Words: 2,016
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/522676
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/coricomile/pseuds/coricomile
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>There's always been a <i>wear this</i>, a <i>you'll look beautiful</i>, and a handful of fabric thrust into his hands, crumpled dresses and lacy skirts and billowy blouses that hide his level chest. And Kurt's some sort of stupid, some sort of soft, because he turns up each time with everything neatly laid on and takes what Puck's willing to give him.</p>
            </blockquote>





	Silver Lace (i'm not sorry)

Puck's hands are warm and large through the thin cotton of the dress, hot points of contact on Kurt's hips. He rubs his thumbs over the smooth curves and presses his mouth to the bend of Kurt's bare, pale shoulder.

It makes Kurt shiver, goosebumps pimpling his skin. His dress is breezy and light, a summer number stolen from Quinn's closet when she hadn't been looking. The hem falls to his knees in a gentle billow, a soft blue that makes him look paper white in the thin light of Puck's bedroom. He's not wearing shoes, his feet bare in the carpet, and the way Puck towers over him makes something tick in Kurt's chest, makes his stomach fill with flutters.

They've been secret and soft, hiding in dark rooms and muffled words. There's always been a _wear this_ , a _you'll look beautiful_ , and a handful of fabric thrust into his hands, crumpled dresses and lacy skirts and billowy blouses that hide his level chest. And Kurt's some sort of stupid, some sort of soft, because he turns up each time with everything neatly laid on and takes what Puck's willing to give him. 

Puck's mouth slides over the rise of his shoulder, up past the thin ties around Kurt's neck, his tongue wet and slick over Kurt's skin, leaving a tingling trail behind. Kurt curls his fingers in the worn flannel of Puck's shirt and tips his head to the side. It makes him feel open. Vulnerable. 

Winter's creeping through the window, the sick light of the day fading away barely reaching inside the room. Kurt sees a flurry of snow fall through the curtains and spares a thought for if he'll be able to go home, or if he'll have to stay. He doesn't allow himself to think about if Puck will let him.

"You look good like this," Puck says against Kurt's jaw. His voice is low and rough. He's hard in his jeans, the thick line of him pressed firm against Kurt's stomach. It makes Kurt's own dick twitch against the silk of his panties, damp head making the cloth stick to his skin.

Kurt fumbles with the buttons of Puck's shirt, his nails flashing a light periwinkle. Kurt doesn't do things in halves, and dressing up will never be something he doesn't go all in for. His mouth feels sticky with gloss, his eyes thick with eyeliner. It's not picture perfect, but he's learning. He's going to get better.

Puck shrugs out of his shirt, breaking away for a moment to yank his undershirt off. His skin is smooth and brown, the firm muscles in his chest and arms highlighted by the bare overhead light. Kurt traces the bulge of Puck's bicep with easy fingertips, heat boiling low in his stomach. Puck smirks and flexes. Kurt rolls his eyes.

"Charming," he says dryly. It turns into something he won't admit is a squeal when Puck hefts him up in one easy motion, palms rough on the undersides of Kurt's thighs. Kurt locks his knees around Puck's hips and grips Puck's arms tightly, feeling their strength under his hands.

Puck's mattress bounces as Kurt falls back onto it, legs falling open, his dress hiking up. Puck's eyes are dark. He crawls up the bed, an animal wild and predatory, his mouth trailing up the inside of Kurt's calf, chapped lips dragging across Kurt's skin. He lifts up when he reaches mid-thigh, lining himself over Kurt's body, elbows braced on either side of Kurt's head. 

When Puck grinds down against him, Kurt groans, his eyes fluttering shut. Puck's cock is pressed against his, hot even through their clothes. Kurt rocks up against him, the sharp shocks of pleasure running through his spine making him brave. He reaches between them and cups Puck's dick, pressing the heel of his palm against it.

Puck makes a thick, breathy sound that makes Kurt's heart stutter. He tips his head back, jaw tight, the hollows of his cheeks dark. The room is cold, bordering on freezing, but he's got a thin sheen of sweat over his shoulders and forehead, the short hairs at his temples almost black against his skin.

"Fuck yeah," Puck says under his breath. He ruts against Kurt's palm shamelessly, eyes closed and mouth open. "You gonna let me fuck you?" Kurt's hips jerk. Puck laughs low and dirty and reaches down with one hand to undo his fly. "I'll make it good."

Kurt closes his eyes and tries to think past the ache in his dick. This is big, this is- this is him giving something up, and he can't call a do over. When he looks up, Puck's watching him, cool and patient, mouth curled into a smug grin. Slowly, Kurt nods.

Puck sits up long enough to shove his jeans and underwear down, posing proudly for a moment when he's completely naked. He's hot, all hard lines and smooth angles, and Kurt has to reach down to touch himself, just to take the edge off.

Somehow, he ends up on his stomach, face against a cool pillow that smells like Puck. He breathes it in, eyes shut as Puck pulls his hips back and up. The fluttering in Kurt's stomach doesn't stop.

Puck flips the hem of Kurt's dress up, hand lingering at the tender skin at the small of Kurt's back. He touches the lace edges of Kurt's panties with a fingertip, tracing the patterns. Kurt's dick is straining against the front of them, the head peeking out over the top, pressed right up against his stomach. His face goes hot at the thought of how he must look.

Puck's fingertips slide under the waistband of the panties. He slides them down and pulls them back up again, playing, watching the dark fabric against Kurt's light skin. Kurt shivers and thinks about Puck handing them over to him in school, hidden away in the choir room, thinks about Puck's voice, low and thick and sexy as he'd said _wear them tonight_. 

Finally, _finally_ , Puck slides them down to where Kurt's knees are spread, their sharp little hems digging into his skin. There's a moment of blind panic as Puck pulls away, a moment of _please, no, I'm not ready_ and _please, yes, I want to just do it_ , and a fleeting flash of _will you look at me in the morning?_

It's too late to change his mind, in any case, because Puck's hand is back on his ass, slippery wet with lotion. It smells like vanilla, some knock of drug store brand that Kurt can't identify. He takes a deep breath and focuses on the slide of the dress against his back as Puck pulls his hips higher, focuses on the space where it's too big around his flat chest.

He bites his lip when Puck's finger slides down to press at him, surprisingly gentle. It makes Kurt go breathless. Puck presses in slowly, and it burns, but Kurt closes his eyes and thinks of the darkness of Puck's eyes and the easy, self amused smirk that he's probably wearing. 

One finger goes to two goes to three. There's sweat sticking the pretty blue cotton to Kurt's shoulder blades and stomach, heat in his belly that's eating him inside out. He wants to reach down and wrap a hand around himself, wants to rut against the mattress until he's breathless and exhausted, but Puck's holding him in place, firm hand and firm thighs against Kurt's, keeping his legs spread.

The sharp sound of foil tearing makes Kurt go tight around Puck's fingers. He spares a bitter thought about learned lessons, but it's pushed out of his mind as Puck's fingers slide free from him, leaving him open and empty.

He thinks about saying _wait_ , or _what does this mean?_ , but he bites his lip and tries to loosen back up, waiting. Puck's hand runs hot and large over his back, rusting the dress against Kurt's skin, and then he's pressing forward and in.

It hurts, it does, but Kurt lays his forehead to the pillow, hair damp and curling against his temples, and tries to even his breathing. This is good; this will be good.

Puck stalls when he bottoms out, a thick groan echoing in the room. He's tight against Kurt, the fronts of his thighs flush to the back of Kurt's, fingers too tight around Kurt's hips. There will be bruises, and Kurt will touch them for days with a sense of awe.

When Puck gives his first shallow thrust, Kurt's breath catches in his throat, stutters on the way out. It's not good yet, but there's something- Puck shifts and thrusts back in a little harder, and Kurt bites down on his lip. There, there, there; perfect even in his stupid disguise.

He can't move his legs, but he can move his arms, and he does; slides one arm from under himself and tips off to the side, held up by Puck's grip on him. He wraps his fingers around his dick and jerks in time to the sharp, quick rolls of Puck's hips, hands gone shaky. 

Something hot touches the back of his neck, and it's only when the slick wetness of Puck's tongue gathers up the sweat there does Kurt realize it's his mouth. The world's been narrowed down to nothing but Puck against him, the sticky tug of their skin sliding and moving together. The hot wet _drag_ of Puck's cock inside him, hard and thick and hitting the right places. 

Kurt hears a rip distantly, and only the sharp pain on the outside of his thigh lets him know that it's the panties giving way, ripping at the seams and falling to the mattress. Puck scoops them up and presses them to Kurt's cheek, satin to his flushed skin. Kurt can smell himself on them, musk and want and _boy_ written all across the dark fabric. 

Puck bites at his shoulder, and the ball of tension in Kurt's stomach explodes. His balls draw up and his toes curl, and he comes in thick stripes over his fingers, dick pulsing in his hand as he rides it out. Above him, Puck groans.

The hand with the panties slides up, covers Kurt's mouth, and Kurt can't breathe, can only see the dark bedsheets. Puck's thrusts speed up, fast and hard, slam slap sound of skin on skin loud. It's too much, and Kurt can feel himself shaking, his insides sore and shuttery at the feel of Puck moving in him, everything over-sensitized.

Puck comes with a muffled moan, his head thrown back, hips tight against Kurt's ass. He lets his hand drop and Kurt sucks in a breath of stale air, his lungs burning. 

When Puck pulls out and ties off the condom, Kurt rolls to his side, trying to catch his breath. He watches the planes of Puck's back, heart doing a double time march in his chest. He feels lightheaded and sore, his dress absolutely wrecked. 

Puck lays back down, barely touching him but still there. Kurt takes it and holds onto it, keeping the sentiment close to his chest. There's silence for a long time, the soft fall of snow outside muffling the sounds of cars on their way to holiday homes. Finally, Puck turns to look at him, eyes lighter and sharper.

"You can wait out the storm here," he says, light. Kurt feels something in his chest loosen and he nods.

"Can I wear pants?" He asks, masochistic and worried and sharp. Puck watches him for a long time.

"You can do whatever you want," he eventually says. 

Kurt shucks out of the dress like he's been given a reprieve and reaches for the boxers on the floor. When they're on, he feels more like himself. He lifts his chin as he crawls back into the bed, laying himself in the crook of Puck's arm, daring Puck to say anything. The arm curls around his shoulders, Puck's broad hand splayed across his chest.

Outside, the snow continues to fall.


End file.
